


the terribly ordinary life and ridiculous times of arthur & francis

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2013-01-04
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>a peek at the everyday, mundane life of these two ridiculous men. human!au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. installment i.

Arthur wakes with a start. There's the familiar clinking of porcelain against porcelain, and there's the scent of fresh bread, and that nauseating stench of coffee his husband likes so much; it makes his nose wrinkle, a scowl slowly forming even in his half-sleep state. The smells arouse him further until he finally opens his eyes, groaning when filtered sunlight shines bright in his eyes. Arthur turns his head into his pillow with a groan.  
  
He hears a chuckle, "Good morning to you too," and there are fingers at his hair.  
  
"'s too bright," he grunts out, goes to stretch like he usually does when he wakes, but a hurried _wait, careful!_ stills him in his movements; the bump of his foot against something at the edge of the bed tells him so as well, especially when he hears the slide and clatter of silverware. Arthur immediately freezes, and retracts his legs as he sits up on his haunches. He looks pointedly at the crease of concern on the other’s forehead before tossing his gaze over his shoulder where he finds a tray decked with two plates of food and a sloshed teacup.  
  
Oops.  
  
Francis sets his cup down on the nightstand and slides the tray closer to his side of the bed.  
  
"Who gave you the idea of putting it there in the first place?" finally getting his stretch in, he just flops right back down, frowning at the Frenchman who now held a smile on his face.  
  
"At least nothing split on the bed spread," Francis states care freely, wiping away excess tea and holding out the cup for Arthur, "Here, sit. We should eat before the food gets cold."  
  
Sighing, Arthur sits up straight and turns so his back rests against the head board. As he takes the cup warm against his palm, his brows furrow, "You're up awfully early. Obviously been at it for a while," he motions towards the tray. As he takes the first sip of his tea, he narrows his eyes to slits, "What'd you do?"  
  
"Nothing," Francis shakes his head in exasperation, soon setting a plate and fork in Arthur's lap, "Can I not make you breakfast in bed without being accused of something? Have you no faith in me?"  
  
Arthur snorts, clearly unimpressed, "No."  
  
Francis frowns with a roll of his eyes, "You're impossible."  
  
"Should have thought about that before you married me."  
  
“My mistake,” Francis’ comment goes unnoticed by Arthur, who is much more interested in the food. Arthur switches to a cross-legged position, sets his cup down on his side table, and picks up his fork. It’s a simple breakfast: eggs over easy, salted and peppered; fresh rolls that could’ve only been purchased from the bakery a street down and just this morning, too. They’re still warm and fluffy as he bites into one. He smears on a bit of butter and takes another bite, humming at the taste.  
  
Francis holds the morning paper out to read as he chews on his eggs and bread, occasionally speaking to point out some news he finds particularly interesting. Arthur settles with reading a few passages where he sits, only to have something to do while he eats.  
  
Dishes piled on the tray, Francis sets it on the nightstand for transporting later and sighs heavily, content and sated, slides down and lets his back curve with the sagging of his body. It’s still far too early on a Sunday morning to really be up. Both of them would usually still be fast asleep, waking at least around noon. (The only day Arthur allows himself to sleep in past eight.) Arthur gets the idea, wrapping his arms around Francis’ middle and using his belly as a pillow, tangles their legs together.  
  
They lie in the glow of the quiet morning, Francis with his fingers threaded through sandy blond hair gazing dazedly out the draped window and Arthur dozing, lulled by the thumping of his husband’s heartbeat.  
  
“By the way,” his voice rumbles deep in his belly, it startles Arthur awake, “I might have accidentally dropped your favorite tea set earlier—”  
  
It takes a total of a minute for that statement to register in his mind, and not a minute later, Arthur has the whole bed to himself. The groan from the ground is so very satisfying.


	2. intallment ii.

Francis is in the shower.  
  
There's nothing wrong with that, of course, but Francis likes to sing while he's in the shower.  
  
(He's terrible at it.)  
  
It's loud and off key in more places than not, and Arthur really has to refrain from going in there and shoving the bottle of conditioner down his throat. It's getting harder and harder to ignore. Francis’ just got in, so there's at least ten—maybe fifteen more minutes of this left.  
  
Too many minutes in Arthur's book.  
  
He goes to the door because he's really got to pee (too much tea does that), but as he tries to open it, he finds it locked. Perfect.  
  
Arthur's banging at least stops the singing for a second for Francis to speak over the roaring of the shower, "Arthur?"  
  
"Who else would it be?" he scowls even though Francis can't see it, "You've locked the door, open up."  
  
There's a short moment of rattling shower curtains and quieted curses when something falls before the door is opened, Francis standing there in all his wet glory, suds still in his hair. He absently scrubs at his hair while smiling at a frowning Brit, "Oh, have you come to join me?"  
  
"Move it, I need to piss," he hits his chest, a wet slapping sound it makes, and shoves his way through. The room is filled with steam making it stuffy and uncomfortably hot within those few seconds of being in there. It feels as if Arthur just stepped into a sauna the ways he gets choked by the thick steam. Francis just hops back into the hell-hot spray of the shower as if it’s not melting his skin off while Arthur takes care of his business.   
  
It would have gone smoothly if Francis hadn’t started with his horrendous singing again. Arthur can only take so much of it.  
  
“Give it a rest already,” he bates at the shower curtain, “You sound like a dying cat in there.”  
  
Francis’ face appears with a look of offense, “How rude, I do not!” he flicks water in Arthur’s face, “I have a beautiful voice!” he sings, quickly closing the curtain so Arthur couldn’t hit him. Arthur snorts, yea right, finishes pissing, and goes to flush the toilet.  
  
“Remember not to flush the toilet, Arthur,” his fingers still on the lever.  
  
“What?” Arthur raises a brow, “Why not?”  
  
“Just don’t.”  
  
“What are you going on about?”  
  
There’s a stretch of silence before, “Don’t do it, something may come ou..t of the showerhead.”  
  
 _Oh my god_ , he tries to stifle his laughter, “Oh please, nothing will happen—”  
  
“It’s true! Sister used to always say that,” Francis glares from the shower, “Arthur, I’m serious.”  
  
Of course Marianne would say something like that, the little witch. Though Arthur thanks her, because this is _hilarious_.  
  
“Yes, me too,” Arthur fails at keeping his laughs in, hand hovering dangerously over the lever, “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m flushing it.”  
  
The sound of the toilet flushing, coupled with the shower running, renders the frantic Frenchman’s exclamation of his name almost mute, but the look of horror on Francis’ face is priceless.  
  
“That’s a myth, you poor bloke. That sister of yours lied through her teeth just to torment you,” Arthur can’t help himself, and outright _laughs_ , bending at his waist, he even _snorts_ , “The only thing you have to worry about,” he wipes at a stray tear from his eye, trying to calm himself, “is extremely hot water for a couple of seconds! I’m sure you’ll be fine, you take freakishly hot showers anyway..”  
  
There are a slew of French curses he couldn’t be bothered to understand, and Francis turns the faucets off. The curtain is tugged back almost hastily, and a none too happy Francis stands sopping wet. There still shampoo in his hair, too. Arthur lets out another spurt of laughter.  
  
“Oh, would you look at the time—”  
  
“I’m going to wring your neck.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be like that, lov—”  
  
 _Splat!_ and Arthur’s got a wet washcloth stuck to his face. Water drips down his shirt, at which he makes an undignified squeak at the sensation and quickly peels the cloth away. He then chucks it back at the laughing man’s face in retaliation, but hastily escapes lest more damage could be done.  
  
Grumbling at his now damp shirt and face, he removes it, wipes his face, and goes to pull on a new one.  
  
Moving to the kitchen, he washes his hands seeing as he really didn’t get the chance to. Arthur shakes his head, can’t fight away the smile on his face. What an idiot.  
  
When the doorbell rings, Arthur shuffles over in his socks to answer, wiping his hands as he goes.  
  
“Uh, hey,” Arthur has to look up at the boy because he’s a bit taller than he, with sunny blond hair and blue eyes hiding behind a pair of glasses, “We’re moving in next door and..” he points to where a moving truck sits in the parking space of the neighbor’s. Arthur can spot someone else moving boxes into the house, “Not sure if you’re aware, but we think you might have a dying cat in your backyard or something, man.”  
  
 _I knew it._  
  
“No, no, you’ve got it all wrong,” Arthur waves off, “It was just my—”  
  
“Arthur, who’s at the door?”  
  
“Oh, _sweet lord_ ,” Alfred quickly covers his eyes.  
  
“ _Francis_ ,” Arthur seethes, face growing redder than the rose bushes in their front yard, “Do you not have a decent bone in your body, for fuck’s sake, _put some clothes on_!”  
  
  
\- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
  
  
“Hey Al, what’s the matter?” Matthew wipes at his brow, leaning against the truck.  
  
Alfred just comes over, brings the other into his arms, and presses his face into his collar bone.  
  
“I’ve seen some things,” he’s voice is muffled, “Things that I didn’t want to see over at our neighbors’.”  
  
“It couldn’t have been that bad,” Matthew is a little skeptical, but rubs comforting circles into his back.  
  
“No, it wasn’t, but I don’t need to see anyone's junk except yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Omg, true story, my siblings always told me that if someone flushes the toilet while you're in the shower, then some of it would come out of the showerhead. I was so scared, and I'm still a little paranoid about it, so I'll tell people not to flush the toilet while I'm showering. What really happens is the water gets really hot for a few seconds due to the pipes, ehehehe. (Wow, I hope so anyway.)


End file.
